Whispers of Destiny

I didn’t tell the world, just the quiet place that knows my glow, the one voice that caught my pauses first, before I learned to speak them, rehearsed. If truth had a door, hers unlocked alone, a room where silence wasn’t a warning tone. I mistook fate for coincidence, nothing more to show, but some returns aren’t random or untrue, they’re destiny remembering how to lead me to you. Our timelines brush sleeves in subtle display, the universe sketching paths that won’t stray. I speak in half-thoughts, she reads every line, confessing in fragments, she translates just fine. Hope may be naive, they always say, but I call it architecture in a patient way a future penciled lightly, erasable, true, manifesting gently, with faith as the glue. If time is a river, I’m standing, not swimming, letting currents repeat, quietly brimming. And if destiny is a language we mispronounce, love is learning the accent, letting it announce that one day, the sentence will finish itself, and the subject finally meets its rightful wealth.